The Secret Keeper
by lucia marin
Summary: Hannah should be afraid, placing herself in the hands of someone like Bright. But there's more than one kind of fear, and this is the delicious type that not even a bad boy like Bright is immune to. Sweet, slow, perilous first love.
1. A Love Letter

Hey Everyone! Luce is officially back, with the Hannah/Bright ship sailing after the GG one sunk into the bottom of the fic ocean after the show - which preceded it - so, along with MahiaLily, Angel Grace, rubykate, and many other great GG writers, I seem to have found some solace in Hannah and Bright. Let's face it, they're superb characters, and leave plenty to the imagination.

So, The Secret Diaries. Short Summary: Hannah and Bright reach out tentatively towards each other, little warm currents, but they've got a long way to go; short episode in summer, but what will happen when she gets back to Everwood? Tension, sexual and otherwise seeps in as the year starts off with a bang; Topherwon't give up, Amy is falling into another depression, Bright's ex-girlfriend is determined to make her life a living hell, and the encounters with Bright are always an exercise in compromise. But he hasn't got it that easy either; for Bright, it's a frustrating battle to become a better person and to ease Hannah into her first relationship.

The story's done in separate POV's with Third person thrown in when necessary. I wanted to get inside their heads. Bright is nota squeaky clean character; he's got some fairly dark stuff going on. And Hannah's not all naive and sweet either - she has a strong side, and stands up for herself. Hope you like it :- I live for your feedback...so drop me a note...suggestions welcome.

Chapter One: The First Letter

**Hannah**

I could have written him.

I'm a great writer, after all. Well, maybe a really good writer. Or just good. But all self-doubt and dithering aside, I know I could have written one heck of a letter.

But I didn't. Even somebody as inexperienced as me, The Holy Virgin Hannah, would know intuitively that there were two things that could potentially go wrong.

I wrote them in my diary, like I write every stupid thing that lodges itself into my brain.

He might like the idea. But he's not a good writer, because he's a guy and because he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so he'd feel weird about writing back. Like, afraid the letter would sound stupid.

He'll be creeped out. Who writes letters when you have e-mail? How sentimental and cloying is that? Besides, he's not even my boyfriend. I think.

So, I did what normal people did. I sent him a little e-card with a dancing cow and a lake on it that said "Greetings from Minnesota, Land o' Lakes." Inside I wrote two brief lines, something chatty that a regular girl might say, a girl who would be cruising around town with her friends, getting a tan at the lake on the pier, eating cones at Dairy Queen. Kind of like the girls at my old school.

Then, after I pressed send, I felt stupid. I got itchy. What if he thought it was dorky, or if he didn't write back? I thought about cutting my hair, getting a tan, getting back together with Topher. Guys want what they can't have. Guys want girls who are bitches. All these bits of stupid Seventeen style advice floating around in my head like bumper cars, knocking into each other, jarring my nerves.

Then I went outside. The air was cool, but humid, the way it got sometimes late at night; to the left, the woods stretched out, purple and endless. The flickers of the fireflies were dying out. I walked on the gravel driveway, towards the wide, empty street. One lone streetlight buzzed there, blinding, shutting out all the stars. Everyone in our house hated that stupid streetlight; it came in through the blinds at night, killing our sleep, ruining our cool winter skies when the constellations seemed to be pressing down on us.

"One day," everyone had said at one point or another, "I'm going to take out that streetlight."

Inside, I checked my mail. It was a dumb thing to do; it'd only been an hour or so since I'd sent the card. He probably hadn't even seen it yet.

But I checked anyway. Inside my mailbox, there was only one new letter.

And it was from him.

I printed it out and put it in my diary. It went something like this.

Hannah

Greetings from the land of pine trees. It's been a week so I thought that maybe you'd forgot about me but you haven't, which is good. I hope there are no guys in Minnesota hitting on you because if they are I will have to come there and kick their ass and take you back to Colorado. I broke into the community pool last night w. a friend and security came which was alright because he was that guy in the class below mine, don't know if you know him Mike Hargrave the really huge kid with the goatee. And we chilled and had a beer which i know you don't approve of and broke the diving board accidentally when we were trying to see who could jump the highest and Mike just cracked the thing down like a ton of bricks.

I hope you come home soon so you can come lay on my couch, like tell me you missed me because that would be really nice. And then I could tell you some stuff like that too.

Bright

It was my first love letter.

Gad, even I sound like a moron to myself. But I don't care. I started reading and I was so happy I was shivery, and laughing. And then when I read the last lines I wasn't either of those things anymore. I was disturbed. In a good way.

Sweaty. Or spicy.

It was like an ice cube down my back. All the blood tingled in my body. I printed it and signed off and went to my room, to my bed, where I read it over and over.

And it never got stale. Everytime I saw the last line I closed my eyes and saw myself in a dark room on a couch, laying out, and my whole body slow and weak. And I saw him sitting on the other end of that couch, looking at me, and BAM, like a hammer to my stomach, or lower, aching, a good, good ache.

So that's what it means, I kept thinking over and over, mindless repetition. To get turned on. To get hot. Whatever they call it. There it is.

He couldn't write. But he didn't think it was creepy or stupid, me writing him.

And he was going to write back.

There was a third thing I hadn't thought about.

The fact that I was scared of what he would write me. That I didn't know how to answer.

I laid there, trying to fall asleep. I couldn't. I tossed and turned and my body felt strange to me all over. The walls were painted orange from that stupid streetlight. I wanted darkness, and I wanted sleep, and I wanted not to think about me anymore. I felt brave and stupid and there was fire all inside me.

So I did something fairly stupid. I padded silently down the stairs, and took down the shotgun leaning against the desk full of papers in the office, the shotgun every person in the Minnesota woods has. It was smooth and cool, long as my arm. I went to the end of the drive, and the gravel crunched softly under my bare feet, skin tingling, feeling more alive then I'd ever felt.

I put it to my shoulder and pressed the trigger. Above me, in an explosion of sound and light, the streetlight shattered into a billion pieces, raining like fairy dust down onto the asphalt. It twinkled and chimed on the cement, and deep darkness fell around me. I could see Orion above me, winking, cold and far away in the warm summer night.

I knew the answer then.

"I'll be brave," I whispered, to nobody. "I'll lay on your couch and tell you what you want to hear. Then you'll...tell me some things too."

The screen door banged behind me like a quiet amen.


	2. The Mathematics of Pinball

Hey Everyone! Chapter two, in continuation, thank you for the reviews, I'm grateful. You guys give me the motivation to keep on writing - every bit of encouragement counts and gets me all excited. someone5, you're responsible for this second chapter alone, but butterflykisses, kursk, nooneinparticular and everyone else - thank you :-

All right, here's all the Bright goodness you can stand. Disclaimer - you know it - respect as I respect the source.

luce

Chapter 2: The Mathematics of Pinball

**Bright**

I've had a lot of sex.

I'm not, like, bragging or anything. If I said I had a lot of good sex or I had more sex than anybody I know, that would be bragging. It would be true too, but that's besides the point. The point is that she hasn't.

It's like this giant iceberg thing underwater and we are like the boat going towards it. I saw this movie once, I swear. Amy made me watch it. It had that little Leonardo shit in it – Titanic, yeah, that's what it was called. Me and Hannah are like the Titanic, and sex...is...it's ...yeah.

I don't spend all my time thinking about sex, which is probably what everyone thinks. I used to, but back then, it was easier to. Sex is weird that way – the more you have it, the more you think about it, actually. It's never enough. And it's always different.

I'd be lying my ass off if I said I didn't think about doing it with her.

I didn't at first. I'm a fuckup, but even I'm not sleazy enough to do a chick like her even when she was looking at me like I was Superman, with the big puppy eyes. It would have been, like, beyond wrong, making her think I liked her. Besides, she's not hot.

In the regular way. She's way hot in a different way.

That's not a way I'm used to.

It's like, figuring out a math problem. There's always this rule or something floating in the background that you're supposed to know, it's assumed you know it. And you're trying to put the two and two together and it's coming out wrong, and you don't know why. That's what being with Hannah's like. I'm always screwing up, cause that's what I do. But sometimes things add up – what I say, what I do, what she does, and when that happens...we're kissing.

Which is good. Kissing is good. It means everything's ok.

I haven't tested that enough to know – it was one time, and she was looking at me and laughing a little – like I'm transparent or something, which bugs me – and then all this junk is coming out of my mouth that I actually mean and she looks so fresh or something, like new snow. And happy – then I give up talking and kiss her, because that's the way we're going to be. Her mouth is warm and GOD every breath she takes moves against my chest, like this fluttery thing, soft and girl-shaped. I'm so nervous I can't even think. And then I've picked her up, and I'm swinging her around, and she's so light, and laughing, and ...it blows my mind.

It's like a tape, fastforwards and backwards, playing all the time in my head.

She said she felt sweaty. It was random and like an inside joke, probably. But it was weird how she nailed it. I couldn't think of a better word. Sweat is nerves, it's sex, it's heat, all that stuff. I try not to think about that too much because then my brain goes haywire and I end up with blue balls.

Just trying to be honest.

I was thinking about this stuff last Thursday, when Amy came over with a plastic hamper full of hangers, two pots, paper plates and my X-box. Good old Amy, hauling shit for me to my apartment. It's funny – no matter how smartass she is, how much she rides on me and gets pissed at me, there's always something there that makes her a little sister, looking up and wanting to make me happy and stuff. It's how girls are to their older brothers – I remember the way Laynie would look up to Colin, how she'd make him sandwiches and cut them in triangles and even remember to toast the bread.

Bad thought. I shove it to the side.

I try not to think of little stuff like that. When you think of it, big picture style, it's ok; I had a friend named Colin, he's dead now, he makes me think of how life is a gift to be grateful for, I miss him sometimes. See? All general, and it goes down easy to numb you like cough medicine. But little stuff, like the sandwiches? Like the fact all his socks had little Nike swooshes on them?

That shit is like a giant needle, like a shot jabbed into your arm. A bad kind of numb.

Never mind about that junk. Like I said, Amy came over.

She looked around the room, and 'hmmmm-ed' at me.

"Needs a woman's touch," she said. "And I know what woman-"

"Cool it," I growled, tossing a sofa pillow at her.

"No need to be embarrassed," she sang. She was enjoying this way too much. I had to flatten her, just for my peace of mind.

"A girl came by here to look at the apartment," I said. "Damn, she was hot. She wants to split rent."

Her face dropped, then got mean, mean, mean.

"Brighton, are you out of your mind?"

"What!"

"You can't live with a girl! You have a girlfriend! If you have a skank ho walking around here all the time in her boxers you might as well count Hannah out because-"

"Alright, ok! Don't have a frickin' aneurysm," I muttered. "Besides, who said I had a girlfriend?"

That was when the shit really hit the fan. You should see Amy get mad. Her mouth pinches up small and her whole face goes so still that you get this feeling like she's about to pick up a chair and brain you with it.

"You listen to me," she said, and I swear she turned into Mom right there at that moment. She'd hate me if I told her that. "Hannah doesn't have an older brother here to watch out for her and kick your ass. But you'd better know I'm willing to fill that position, you moron. If you mess with her heart – this is so stupid! I told her to stay away from you, that you were like, in different leagues! But nooooo, Bright this, Bright's a good person-"

"I am a good person!" I said, but I don't know if it sounded that convincing. "Besides, she's a ballsy chick. She can handle a lot of stuff."

"You might think that, but she still doesn't understand a lot. And she's nervous when you turn the tables on her, and, you know, sensitive."

"Oh my God."

"Bright!"

"Man, are you going to bitch me out everytime I hurt her feelings? Cause that's not the way I see this working," I said, and this time I was serious, and sort of quiet. Because it just came to me that if she did, it would suck ass.

And all over again, I wasn't sure.

See, this is the way it goes.

One day I really want to be with Hannah. The next day, I think of all the junk we're going to go through, and how hard it's going to be, and I just feel all tired. The next day, I wake up, and I miss her, and I think it doesn't matter.

And back and forth all the time like pinball or something.

Then, sometimes, between those days, I have one of those dreams if you know what I'm saying. Then I wake up and damn, I wish she was here, cause it really does a number on you; and I don't even think about pros and cons, I think about her in her underwear.

Like I said, just trying to be honest here.

But I'd probably gouge out my own eyeballs and eat them before telling Amy any of this. I wonder if Hannah'll tell Amy that stuff? It would be way beyond disturbing if she did. That's why I had to draw the line right there.

"Like, what I mean is, if you're always going between one side and the other, it's just going to make stuff harder. I understand that you're her best friend, but when you were going out with Colin, we didn't talk about you AT all. Except maybe if you were mad and he wanted to fix it, then he'd ask me what flowers to buy you or whatever."

Right when I said that, I wanted to kick myself. She got really quiet. I forgot not to mention that around her. But I guess she had been thinking about it too. Her eyes were sort of shiny – I am such an ass – and then she made a little face.

"Ew, do you think I want to know what all goes on between you and Hannah? There's some things I hope I never hear in my life." She took a really deep breath, and tilted her head back, pretending to examine the fan on the ceiling.

"Nice fan," she said. "Antique iron-work."

Which was bullshit. You tip your head back when you're trying keep any tears from coming out. Don't ask me how I know – I don't cry. Cause guys don't cry. And I'm a guy. Hey, that rhymes. Anyway, Amy.

I went and gave her a hug. She felt really narrow, and sort of small, and that made me sad. I wondered what was the last time she had a guy give her a hug.

"Look, we'll figure it out," I told her. "I'll try hard. I don't want to fuck up now, God, cause this is a really good chance, you know? It's all...different."

"Yeah, I know," she said, all whispery.

"Hey Little Sister, don't get shitty sentimental on me," I grinned, and she smacked my arm, grabbing the hamper and carrying it off to the bedroom. Her voice floated back out at me, totally smug.

"Nice twin mattress. A little snug for such a ladies' man, doncha think?"

Brat.

That night, I didn't write. Or the night after, or the night after, because I was afraid that if we started writing every night, I'd run out of smart or funny stuff to say in a week. It's stressing for me. Besides, I have big hands. I type slow. And since the last job, I really hate computers. All excuses, excuses, I'm good at excuses.

Then, I got freaked out somehow. I can't explain what it was. It was like, I had stopped writing for so long, I was scared of starting again, or procasti – procraste – whatever the fuck, putting it off. I didn't know what to write about. I really wanted to write, and I was being a pussy, and I didn't even know why.

I don't know why I do stupid shit sometimes. I just do. The end.

Then I got her postcard.

It was morning and I went out to the mailbox with the milk-carton in my left hand cause I was drinking from it and it didn't come to me to put it down when I went out. And I was wearing my bathrobe, and Mrs. Knutsen, my 60 year old neighbor gave me the weirdest look – ever. I think she was perving on my boxers.

Anyway, there it was in the mailbox. It had her name and it was from Minnesota, and there was something written in the middle – then scratched out.

And I couldn't read it.

It drove me fuckin' nuts. Crazy. Loony.

I knew I was going to have to ask Amy. After the talk we'd had, I also knew I'd look like a giant ass. But I didn't really care.

So I did. And I couldn't believe what she told me.


	3. Postscript

Chapter 3: Post-script

Bright

_The house is a tomb_.

Or, at least, that's what it feels like to Bright. To the right, there's the kitchen, bowls of cereal stacked in a crusty tower in the sink, dried pizza splatters on the microwave. To the left, there's a quiet, dusty living room whose windows are hazy with grime.

And to the back and down the hall, there's his mother, possibly dying.

Only she remembered to do those stupid windows. The refrigerator is full of microwaveable food, something she'd never have allowed before. Now Amy makes Hot Pockets for dinner and retreats to her room, flipping on cartoons to drown out the silence. His dad eats popcorn most nights, propping up his sock feet on the coffee table with one ear cocked towards Rose's room, watching the news on mute.

This is what it feels like to watch it come unglued quietly.

_It's not like Amy's meltdown_. Then there was tension and electricity and anger but it was alive, everyone was so real. _No_, he thinks to himself, _this is worse_. On a tragedy scale of one to ten, one being No More Football and ten being Colin Dying, this is a fifteen, maybe a twenty.

He wonders where losing Hannah would rate on that scale.

It's worse without her here – and Ephram gone – the summer stretching out long and cool, with late evenings; the days are filled with halogen lights and freezing classrooms at the community college. He tries to concentrate – _honest to God, I do _– but it's hard. He keeps thinking of home, of the new, empty apartment, of Hannah.

_If you were here_, he thinks, _I'd be busy, too busy to think. You'd be nice and warm and right beside me, and you wouldn't say stupid stuff that pissed me off like "oh my gosh, Bright, I'm soooooo sorry 'bout your mom" like that moron, Jen Ludley at the drugstore yesterday. You'd be quiet and you'd stroke my hair, pet my head the way you do with Amy sometimes when she's all ...down and stuff. _

But she's not.

There's no cheerful voice in the foyer. Nobody cooking, cutting stuff and stirring and spicing in the kitchen. No giggles from Amy's room. No days playing hooky, nobody else...whose parent is dying too.

_Yeah, that's it_, he says to no one. _The real attraction. God, what a sorry couple–one half-dead parent each and two completely different directions_.

But it's no use trying to be sarcastic. He knows it's more than that.

It's everything. There are some things that jolt him awake in the night, leaving him staring at the ceiling, wondering how something so small can be so disturbingly sexy. It's not the sexy Bright's used to – cleavage, ass, minis, a tanned stomach, a shirt getting flung off. He remembers walking into her room that time, when she'd been dressed in her pajamas. How she'd stood up, grabbing the blanket around her, hiding herself. It's strange –after all, she was dressed like a five year old.

_At least they weren't footsie pajamas with a zipper down the front_, he grins to himself.

But immediately, his mind had gotten stuck on her body, with that abrupt, embarrassed gesture. Wanting the blanket to go away. Wanting to see what was under it. Suddenly it became sexy. And her shyness, her slenderness, the sweet curve of her waist came into view slowly, and it was strange, the electricity they gave off.

He had been glib, joking, so self-absorbed.

And strangely embarrassed to find out she was not the center of his world. Somehow upset, put off. He'd started wondering if she was over him.

He wants to tell her things. It's so unfathomable, with her nervousness, her delicacy, to imagine her slowly stepping out of her clothes, a shirt sliding off a shoulder, the whisper of a zipper. It makes his stomach turn deliciously, his nerves cord and snap like rubber bands. It seems almost impossible, and that somehow makes it even more erotic.

_You're setting yourself up for a lot of disappointment, Bright, _he muses. In a million years, maybe, after you stick that ring on her finger and fly off to Maui.

But maybe that's part of the appeal.

The thought knocks him over. Marry Hannah?

_Dude, no way. Not for another ten years, no way in hell I'm getting married._

_Am I?_

_No. _

But if he ever got married? Or if someone held a gun to his head and told him to marry or die? If his mom had five years to live and she told him she wanted to see a grandkid?

_It'd be Hannah_, he realizes with a shock. _She's the only one who's good for the long run, for forever, for when people die and things get rough_.

He wonders what she'd think if she knew.

Bright,

I swam in the lake at sunset. The woods were all purply and the water was dark blue like the sky and it was just so...beautiful. I guess it made me think of Everwood, the way the pine trees on the ridge get black with sun flaming out behind them when it goes down. I laid out on the dock till it got night and I wished you were there so that it'd be less quiet, and so that I'd be laughing instead of thinking.

I think too much. I shot a streetlight, because you're rubbing off on me – I feel like I'm getting ballsier and somehow less rational at the same time, as if bravery had to be equated with craziness in order to leave any sort of impression. Besides, I had to match your swimming pool caper. Maybe when I get back we can knock up a liquor store, build a viking burial raft and douse it in vodka and set it on fire in the middle of the lake, shoot a deer and leave it on the counter at Mama Joy's, or steal a few cars and sail them off a cliff. (Please don't get any ideas. I'm just joking.)

I hope everything's alright at home. You know where I am if it's not.

Hannah

He reads the letter again, lying on top of his bed with his ankles crossed, and folds it back up. It's creased and worn along the lines from folding and unfolding – he's read at it at least ten times in the last couple of days, pulling it out from under his mattress where he used to keep the girlie mags.

He doesn't think about his mom slapping him that day. About how disappointed she had been, the sadness in her eyes. It feels too horrible, to remember how he'd let her down; he never thought all the screwing around he'd been doing meant anything, that the endless parade of girls through the living room and bedroom were of any significance to her.

_She'd be so ecstatic,_ he thinks wryly, _if she knew about Hannah_.

A year ago, the thought would have annoyed him.

Now, it just sort of makes him feel warm.

Hannah

She's never had the sex talk.

The talk where your parent – or parents – come in and they sit down on your bed and they both looks mildly nauseous or maybe sad and definitely edgy. And they tell you it's time you all discussed some things, now that you have a boyfriend, and if you know where and how-

You know.

She's watched this a million times on after-school specials, old reruns and Lifetime movies. Boy Meets World. Home Improvement. American Pie. Birds and bees and old anatomy books flutter around in her head, flashing in and out of sequence. Is this what everybody's family does? Then, on-screen, everybody hugs and passes out condoms. She thinks it's all a little weird.

But it doesn't keep her from wishing somebody was there to do that for her too. To embarrass her, so she could yowl MOO-ooo-mmm! Like the shiny-haired teens with the laugh-track behind them spurring on the facial contortions.

It won't be her mom, with her wet-naps and feeding tubes and needles, pills and sheets and sponges. It won't be her dad, now silent and hazy-eyed.

It'll probably be Amy. Or Nina.

But probably Amy. It's not that there's anything wrong with Nina; she's nice, and encouraging, and that pep-talk she doled out after the Bright-kiss-ketchup disaster was Lifetime-movie worthy. Yes, Nina could do the job. However, after an unfortunate incident that involved accidentally finding something that looked like a foot massager in Nina's closet – and realizing later what it actually was – she's a bit terrified of Nina.

The thought just kinda freaks her out, that's all. It's not that she thinks it's...perverted, or anything, gosh! No! but she can't imagine – ahem – _doing that_ and oh, the whole mess it too adult and complicated and cartoonish, almost.

No, she'd ask Amy. Amy would be jokey and casual and deprecating, and she can handle that. Not a serious, sentimental talk with a vibrator user who was responsible for you and might potentially flip out.

But Amy – yeah, Amy'd do the trick. Amy knew what it meant to be there – after all, she'd gone through the same thing with Ephram – hadn't she?

She's scared maybe Amy hasn't. Maybe Amy and Ephram were just like a movie where they danced around looking pretty, flung each other's clothes off and went at it happily, ending with a bang, and then cooing sweet things afterwards.

_No, no way_, she thinks. _That can't be real life. It sounds too much like a Jennifer Lopez movie. _She imagines Amy snorting with laughter, and feels better.

It's easier to put it all out of her mind – but it keeps sneaking back in.

_There's a difference between someone who's never kissed a boy and someone who's been with half of County._

_He's like Tiger Woods and you're...mini golf. _

_I've never even held a club._

Heh.

She can joke. She's brave now. _You're brave now, remember? You shot a streetlight_?

But somehow, it's still not enough.

Hannah:

Stuff at home is ok, I guess. I'm tired of microwave food and those mini-pizzas, which were good to start with but then I ate a whole bag and got sick and switched to bagel-bites which are sort of better, but not really.

So I wish you'd come home and cook. Damn those were some good looking sandwiches you made, and the spaghetti sauce and remember when you made stir-fry one night?

I'm hungry now so I'm going to stop. Well anyway. Amy is getting all down and shit again without you here. It's weird but I'm actually doing good in school and I have this public speaking class where teacher is in love with me or something. She wants me to transfer to Colorado A&M for a business major and she's helping me get all my shit in order – transcripts and classes. She keeps a bottle of Jack Daniels in her bottom drawer. Me and the Mike guy got halfway wasted looking for an eraser last week.

So. That's all the new things. I'm glad you wrote. You're a super writer.

Bright

Ps. That's not all I wanted to say also that God it would be good to hug you because your hair always smells so nice and you're not too tall or too short and just right. Which sounds stupid but is very important and you feel so good God I hope that didn't sound bad but you do, you know.

Ps.2. never mind


End file.
